The Trials of Combeferre
by Tam Lynne
Summary: A Romantic Comedy Starring: Les Amis, Patron-Minette, and, in her very first appearance, Canon Sue!
1. Combeferre Asks Advice, For A Change

Note: No, I don't own them, any of them.  But for the moment, we can pretend I do, right?  Right?  Also, this is technically the sequel to The ABC Friends, and features the same Combeferre, who is at least a little mine, although knowledge of The ABC Friends is not at all necessary to understand the twisted permutations of this particular plotbunny.

            Combeferre was in love.

            He had only ever seen the girl once, of course, but it was a long and time-honored tradition among young law students to fall in love with beautiful young girls merely upon sight, and Combeferre was never one to flout tradition.  Not that Combeferre was technically a lawyer, either – he had come to Paris to be a teacher.  Still, extra knowledge never hurt, so when Combeferre had learned that Marius would rather stare mournfully at portraits of Napoleon than attend class, Combeferre had cheerfully volunteered to attend law school in his stead.  Marius, whose idea of taking notes was doodling 'Belle Ursula' in bubble letters in the margins of his textbooks, was quite happy with the whole situation.  It left him more time to pursue his hobby of stalking young girls.  This hobby, in fact, was why Combeferre was speaking to him now.

            "Oh, it's easy enough to find out where she lives," Marius was saying.  "All you have to do is find some nobody who obeys your every whim and hire her to follow the girl home, and –"

            At this point a painfully skinny shadow, which had been lurking in the shadows on the other side of the room, let out an offended wail and stormed out.  Marius looked confused.  "Was it something I said?"

            "Search me," said Combeferre, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses.  "If I understood women, would I be asking _you _for advice?"

            Marius shrugged.  "Well, I am sensitive, clever, well-mannered, considerate, passionate, charming, as kind as I'm handsome, and heir to a barony . . ."

            Combeferre gave him a dubious look, but contented himself with saying, "If you say so."  Now was no time to burst the poor boy's bubble.

            "Anyways," said Marius, cheerfully oblivious of any flaws in his self-image, "Once the nobody has found out where she lives, all you have to do is break into her garden one night, send her passionate love poetry, and wait until she falls madly in love with you!"  He lowered his voice conspiratorially and added, "If you're very lucky, she might even let you see her ankle.  But make sure you do it behind walls, otherwise it might come across as immodest . . ."

            Combeferre had no great experience with the opposite sex, but he had heard enough of Courfeyrac's stories to find something slightly odd about this.  "Just the ankle?" 

            Marius' eyes widened.  "Degenerate!" he exclaimed.  "_Radical_!  Under the Emperor this sort of thing would never have been allowed!"

            "Marius," Combeferre said wearily, "Bonaparte collected beautiful mistresses by the score.  It was practically his hobby.  I think he got to see a little more than their ankles."

            Marius was struck speechless with indignation, and went off in a huff.  This was how conversations with Marius tended to end.  Combeferre had often thought that perhaps Marius was a little unstable.  Then again, instability was practically the chief requirement for joining Les Amis de L'ABC to begin with.  Every so often Combeferre was tempted to leave and get a real job, but then Enjolras would shout insulting revolutionary slogans at a high-placed political official or Bossuet would accidentally knock over a three-thousand-franc bottle of perfume and Combeferre would have to stay and deal with the ensuing fracas, and then he would realize all over again that without some stabilizing force they would probably all run out in an instant and be hit by a runaway cart. 

            But however intelligent he was, Combeferre didn't know everything, and this time it was he who needed help.  In cases like this, medically speaking – Combeferre often took Joly's place in his medical courses, too; after all, a little extra knowledge never hurt – what was usually needed was a second opinion.  Abandoning Marius' now-empty chair, he ambled over to Courfeyrac, who was arguing with Grantaire over the relative benefits of Marie Antoinette and Anne Boleyn.

            "Sure, Boleyn was no great beauty," Courfeyrac was saying, "but all the history books admit that she had a nice ra-"

            "I hate to interrupt this intellectually enlightening discussion," said Combeferre, "but do you think I could ask you two a question?"

            "Hate questions.  More beer," mumbled Grantaire, and collapsed in a heap.

            "All right," said Combeferre patiently, "then could I ask _you _a question, Courfeyrac?"

            Courfeyrac grinned.  "All right, but if it's about Joly and Bossuet, I still say they're –"

            "It's not about Joly and Bossuet," said Combeferre.  "Really, Courfeyrac, not _everything _is about romantic gossip, you know.  I merely have a hypothetical situation to put to you."

            "Yes?"

            "Do you think jumping into a young lady's garden will make her fall in love with you?"

            Courfeyrac frowned thoughtfully.  "Depends on the young lady," he said finally.  "And on whether or not you're wearing clothes at the time." 

            Combeferre decided not to ask.

            "In any case," continued Courfeyrac, "I don't see you as really much the garden-jumping type.  You'd probably trip over a branch, and accidentally break the lady's leg, and –"

            "Hey!" said Bossuet from across the room.  "I told you that story in confidence!"

            "What story?" demanded Bahorel, who often felt left out of things, and resented it.  "I never heard this story!"

            "I've heard it," said Joly smugly.  "I was there."

            Feuilly's brow furrowed.  "You were there when Bossuet was meeting with his girlfriend?  Isn't that a bit awkward?"

            "We share a lot," said Joly defensively.

            Courfeyrac leered.

            "Not _that _much," said Bossuet, turning scarlet, which only made Courfeyrac leer even more.

            "Oh dear," said Joly, eyeing his now crimson friend nervously.  "You don't have mumps, do you?  You aren't going to give me the mumps, are you?  You have mumps, I know it, and now I've caught it, and my beautiful face will be ruined forever!"

            "And how exactly did you catch it from him?" demanded Courfeyrac, his grin now so wide it looked like it was going to split his head in two.

            Combeferre decided at this point that it was time to leave.  After all, he did have a young lady to stalk.


	2. Outside The Old Gorbeau House

Note: And this is the part where Victor Hugo turns over in his grave, as the mysterious Canon Sue's identity is revealed.  Sadly, by her very canon-ness, I cannot claim ownership of her, nor of Combeferre, nor the Amis, nor Patron-Minette, nor anyone, in fact, at all worth owning.  I can't even claim the setting for the flashback – it's the Ambush in the Old Gorbeau House, for anyone who was wondering.  But that certainly isn't going to stop me from abusing them wholeheartedly . . .

            Upon leaving the Café Musain, Combeferre checked for oncoming traffic – he always made sure to look both ways upon crossing the street, especially after the unfortunate incident with Bossuet and the cart full of angry fresh lobsters – made a left, and headed towards Marius' place.   This was not, of course, from any desire to see Marius, but because the first time he had seen his love, she had been lurking about a block away from the Old Gorbeau House.  Combeferre felt a dreamy smile creep onto his face just thinking about it.

            That evening, he had actually been planning on visiting Marius, after Courfeyrac and Bossuet had mentioned passing him in the street.  Courfeyrac, chuckling, had added that he seemed to be stalking an older man, a poet of some sort, and had proceeded to make some rather bawdy jokes that had a fair bit in common with his comments about Joly and Bossuet.  Combeferre had found himself rather worried about the poor boy.  After all, Marius was right at the age where it was easy to become confused on all sorts of things, besides the fact that he was already a little strange in the head, and if he _had_ in fact decided to fall madly in love with a dubious-looking older poet, he should be able to talk to someone about it who would give him sound advice rather than either collapsing into giggles, like Courfeyrac, or trying to snag him a hooker, as Bahorel or Grantaire undoubtedly would.  Joly and Bossuet would of course automatically assume that this was another one of Courfeyrac's tricks to get them to come out of the closet, and Feuilly, while generally a sensible chap, was far too busy to waste time on Marius' issues of sexual identity, or any of Marius' other issues, for that matter.  Jean Prouvaire would probably stop somewhere along the way to scribble down a poem about a lost shoe and completely forget about his original errand, and Enjolras was simply out of the question, for a multitude of reasons.  As usual, Combeferre, despite his relative inexperience in such matters, had no alternative but to go himself.  

On the way there, his boot had become untied, and he had stopped in a corner to refasten it.  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he had seen, lurking in a dark corner, a vision of pure loveliness.  At least, he was fairly sure it was a vision of pure loveliness – it had been, after all, rather dark and misty that night, and he hadn't been able to see much more of the fantastic sylph than blonde hair, fiery green eyes and a vague blob of a face before the vision fastened on a mask, in a businesslike manner, effectively blocking his view.  "Damn Thénardier," she had muttered, in a voice like a bell – perhaps a rusty bell, but a bell nonetheless – and slipped away towards Marius' place.  Combeferre had tried to pursue, but in his newfound rapture he had forgotten to finish tying his shoelaces. The ensuing tumble left him quite senseless for a moment, and when he had brushed himself off and looked around again for his new love, she was gone.

Combeferre had, of course, tried to finish his errand responsibly – Marius still needed help, and lots of it, even if Combeferre had been suddenly shot through the heart by a mysterious vision in the fog – but when he reached the Old Gorbeau house, he had seen Javert waiting outside.  As Javert was apparently the only police officer in Paris, and perhaps even all of France, Combeferre knew Javert quite well from pulling various of the Amis out of various tight spots they had gotten themselves in.  He got along with Javert.  They did logic puzzles together on occasion, and when Javert had guest-taught a D.A.R.E. class for a semester at the University, Combeferre had gotten the highest marks in the class.  (This might have been because a good many students never showed up – probably worried about the rumor that he had collared four pupils his first period for Suspicious Loafing With Bread.  Combeferre had often tried to explain that the rumor was entirely unsubstantiated, but to little avail.)  In any case, however, despite their long history of amicable relations, Combeferre hadn't been sure he felt up to dealing with the police inspector in his stunned state – and anyways, he had been so busy that he hadn't even gotten a start on the latest logic puzzle, and Javert had probably already finished it, and he would be humiliated for life if he talked to him before getting the answer.

So Combeferre had told himself that he would deal with Marius later, and gone home to bed, so full with thoughts of the golden-haired girl that he hadn't even studied for his quizzes in New Renaissance Theory in Art, Robespierrian Economics, and Advanced Polish Fan-Making (an independent study he was taking from Feuilly – after all, more knowledge never hurt.)  It didn't really matter, since he knew all the information by heart anyways, but still, it was disconcerting – Combeferre _always _studied.  At that point, he had known that he was in love.

These musings had brought him as far as the Old Gorbeau House.  Combeferre had later learned that there had been a robbery there the night he had seen his love, which had been the reason for both Marius' strange behavior and Javert's presence by the door.  Hopefully news of such violent goings-on wouldn't scare the beauty away.  He had two hours before his class in Ancient Sumerian Writings, so he settled down into a dark corner and waited.

He was just about to give up and go home when he heard a voice that sent delicious chills up and down his spine, chills that would have had Joly in bed for a week.  "So Thénardier, his husband – excuse me, his wife, but you admit it's an easy mistake to make – and their brats were all hauled off to prison?"

Combeferre squinted around the corner of his nook, and could just make out a vague dark silhouette a ways down the street.  The person the silhouette was addressing was easier to make out – it looked, in fact, like a beautiful blonde young man, a bit like a better-groomed Enjolras.  He could tell it wasn't Enjolras, however, because instead of making a fiery speech about the freedom of the people and the injustice of the corrupt gendarmes, the blonde youth simply said, "Yes, all except the littlest _môme_ – you know, the elephant kid?"

"I know him," said the vision disdainfully.  "I know everyone, 'Parnasse.  I know things about yourself that _you _don't even know.  How's Eponine, by the way?"  Combeferre relaxed – for a minute he had been afraid . . . but no, the blonde youth obviously had a girlfriend (further proof that it wasn't Enjolras – there was a rumor going around that Enjolras still believed babies came from the stork) and was therefore not any kind of threat to the virtue of his mist-maiden.

"Aside from in prison?" asked the blonde boy sarcastically.  "Oh, she's fine.  Moony, irritable, fussing over her new hat . . . you know how women are."

Combeferre blinked a little at this.  This wasn't generally the sort of comment one made to a woman – at least, not if one wanted to escape unslapped.

The vision seemed to share this general opinion.  "Have you ever stopped to wonder that perhaps the reason she's moony and irritable is because of you?"

"Because of me?"  The blonde boy sounded startled.  "Don't be silly, Claquesous, you know every grisette in the area wants a piece of my gorgeous body and elegant fashion sense . . ."

A name!  Combeferre forgot all his puzzlement with this revelation.  At last, something to go on – a name to carve into the tables at Corinth, to make up bad love poetry about, to doodle into his textbooks . . . well, not doodle in his textbooks, because Combeferre would never dream of defacing school property, but at least doodle in the margins of his notebooks.  And what a beautiful name, too – Claque-Sue!  


	3. Which Advances The Plot Not At All

Note: Yes, I reiterate, I own none of them.  But Combeferre's poem, alas, I'm ashamed to admit, is entirely mine.    

Combeferre frowned and stared down at the poem he was laboriously carving into one of the tables at the Café Musain.  "Her hair is cascade of flowing yellow; I drink my wine, its taste is mellow; her eyes are green like the leaves of trees, or a caterpillar of the _Vanessa cardui _species," it read so far.  This was all certainly true, but there seemed to be something lacking.

            Jean Prouvaire, recognizing in his face the familiar anguish of poetic composition, leaned over to read the lines.  His thin, dreamy features immediately assumed an expression of extreme agony, as if someone had punched him in the nose – although, in fact, if someone did punch him in the nose, it was unlikely he would notice.  "'Ferre," he said weakly.  "Um . . . it's a beautiful poem.  It really is.  It's just, just that –"

            Courfeyrac craned his neck from the other side, and immediately burst into guffaws.  What he said was indistinct through the manic laughter, but it sounded something like, "No wonder you're not getting any!"

            "Courfeyrac!" said Enjolras and Marius in unison.  They then turned to glare at each other.  Enjolras and Marius were not getting on these days.  Nobody had never quite understood the reason, but from all the impassioned shouting about red and black that went on, the general consensus was that it had something to do with a bitter game of checkers.

            "I don't see what's wrong with it," said Combeferre indignantly.  "It rhymes, doesn't it?"

            Feuilly, who had wandered over to see what all the hubbub was about, gave a low chuckle.  "Well, how would you like it if someone compared your eyes to a grasshopper?"

            Combeferre raised his eyebrows.  "Well, of course I wouldn't like it," he said briskly.  "It's completely inaccurate.  My eyes are gray; it would be far more appropriate to compare them to mealworms, or something of that nature.  Although," he added, in a more considering tone, "there are some caterpillars that are gray, if I remember right, so it wouldn't be too off the mark after all.  I'll have to look it up when I go to my class in Insect Researches and Metamorphoses."

            Feuilly sighed and shook his head.  "You're hopeless, ami," he said, and swung to a standing position, grabbing his leather bag of fans.  "Well, I'm off; I've got a couple of fans to deliver to special customers.  There's one the address is illegible for – it was ordered by a Monsieur LeRoi Sux -"

            "Oh," said Joly, red-faced, and hurried up.  "Erm . . . that one's mine."

            Courfeyrac, who had been on the verge of overcoming his amusement at Combeferre's poem, promptly fell off his chair and started rolling on the floor.

            "What?" protested Joly, grabbing a fan and hastily stowing it under his shirt.  From the brief glimpse Combeferre got, it looked like it was pink, with beads and a ribbon.  "I don't want to die of heat stroke.  Do _you _want to die of heat stroke?  Because it's a very real risk this time of year, and if _you _want to die of heat stroke, Courfeyrac, it can certainly be arranged, and –"

            "Oh, no, it's perfectly normal," said Feuilly, deadpan.  "And it's just coincidence that it happens to exactly resemble the one that a six-year-old girl ordered from me last week –"

            "And I bet she didn't die of heat stroke, either!" said Joly.  By this point, Bahorel and Grantaire had joined Courfeyrac on the floor, and Bossuet was trying to hide his grin behind a revolutionary pamphlet.  

            "I wouldn't laugh if I were you," said Joly, looking daggers at his roommate.  "Remember, I could tell them about –"

            "I'm not laughing," said Bossuet hastily.  "Not laughing, not laughing, not laughing, not –"

            At this, Courfeyrac got his giggles under control, with effort, sat up, and regarded them with interest.  "Go on, laugh," he encouraged Bossuet.  "I want to hear this."

            "All right, all right, enough," interrupted Feuilly.  "I've got to go deliver something to the vicinity of the Old Gorbeau House – catch you all later?"

            Combeferre's ears pricked up.  "Who exactly," he asked innocently, "needs a fan in the Old Gorbeau House?"

            This was enough incentive for everyone else to stop whatever else they were doing and start nudging each other and winking.  Everyone knew that Combeferre's mystery lady lived somewhere around the Old Gorbeau House.  (They also knew her name, her hair color, and just about everything else it was possible to know – Combeferre had tried his hardest to keep it a secret, but it was a bit pointless when he went around singing "Claque-Sue, Claque-Sue, I love you" as he went from class to class.)

            "Sorry," said Feuilly, with a knowing grin.  "It's another pink fan, ordered by a M. Montparnasse, in theory as a Valentine's day present for a Mlle Eponine, although judging from the look of the boy it might just as easily be a Valentine's day present for himself –"

            "I told him not to buy me things anymore!  And I hate pink!" came a voice from underneath Marius' chair.  Then, as everyone in the room did a double-take, the voice hastily added, "Um . . . I didn't say that.  I mean, nobody said that.  I mean, nobody's here.  Lalalalala, I'm a chair, I'm a chair, just a normal, everyday chair . . ."

            "Well, that was strange," said Feuilly.  "Anyways, I'm off.  Marius, you might want to consider hiring an exorcist."

            Combeferre hopped off his chair.  "I'll come with you anyways," he said, trying to look innocent.  For some reason, the name Montparnasse sounded terribly familiar.  "I could use the walk."

            Feuilly frowned.  "Haven't you got a class?"

            "Not for a while," said Combeferre.  "They need a new professor for my Theories of Basic Saintliness course – Professor Fauchelevant heard that Inspector Javert was in the building teaching his DARE class again, and handed in his resignation."

            "I maintain that he was an ex-boyfriend," added Courfeyrac, from the floor.  Everyone ignored him, of course.  Courfeyrac did this a lot.

            "Oh, he did?" asked Bahorel, looking disappointed.  "That's a shame – I made good money off of him.  All you had to do was bring a chimney sweep to class, and he'd start handing out the forty-sous pieces . . ."  He intercepted Enjolras' glare, and added hastily, "Which, of course, I spent on firepower for the Glorious Revolution!"

            "All right," said Feuilly, who had been shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.  "All right, very interesting story – now, Combeferre, if you're coming, let's _go_, before the table starts tap-dancing or something else happens to distract us.  I've got a deadline, you know."

            And, finally, they were off.


End file.
